


Welcome to the Menagerie

by Underscore



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, The Black Company Series - Glen Cook
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:12:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Underscore/pseuds/Underscore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Brave Companions weren't the only free company hired by Tywin Lannister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The salt breeze whispered through the window, cool on my sweaty forehead. I took another sip of wine and kept writing. Not that there was much to write, and that was dry reading. Two brothers injured in training. Rumors in the market of a madman lurking in the sewers. Another dispute with the leatherworker’s guild over the quality of goods received. That was the sum total of my contribution to the Annals today. I sanded the page and put the book carefully aside with its companion volumes. Another breath of wind off the harbor whispered in through the window. I squinted into the nearly level rays of the setting sun. I was done for the day. I capped the inkwell, tossed off the rest of the wine, and headed downstairs.

 

I found my squad playing cards in the south hall. That was where they had been yesterday evening, and the evening before that, and the evening before that. I flopped into a chair next to Kip and wondered why I felt so tired.

 

“You don't look so good, old man,” Mayson observed, smoothly dealing me in. “Been spending too much time with your books. Bad for your health.” He clicked his tongue knowingly.

 

“The day you get away with calling me 'old man', _boy_ , is the day they throw me out of the Company.” I retorted, tossing down a trio of queens.

 

He grinned. We were the same age, or near enough. Joined the Company on the same day, inducted on the same day, blooded in the same battle. We even looked alike, except for skin color and scars.

Unimpressed with my spread, Kip laid down three sevens. Keelstone drew, cursed, discarded. Lilt followed his example. Mayson drew, stalled, fiddled with his cards. We stared at him. He sweated, looked over his cards again, finally discarded. Silkfingers drew, yawned, and laid down a four card run.

 

“I swear, if you pull this again...” Keelstone growled, fingering his cards.

 

Back around to me. Draw. Too many face cards to go down, not enough to make a run. I discarded.

 

“What in the hells are we doing here?” I said suddenly.

 

“Playing cards.” Kip grunted.

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

“Getting fat off the Archon I say.” Keelstone glanced around the circle like he expected someone to disagree.

 

“We're doing nothing,” I said irritably. “We play cards. We drill. I scribble a few lines in the Annals. That's it. Day after gods-damned day.”

 

“We're under contract, Spatter,” Silkfingers said quietly. “You know that as well as I do.”

 

Lilt balanced a card on a fingertip. “The Archon's waiting. The Captain's waiting. We're all waiting.” He flipped the card into the discard pile.

 

Kip brightened. “I hear Kitten's squad is going out tonight. We could go along, break up a few taverns with 'em.”

 

“Captain will have your balls if we have to drag you back to Carver one more time this month.” I warned.

 

“Ah, he's not really angry,” Keelstone said. “Makes us look good, you know? Brings in the boys.”

 

“Well, you would know, wouldn't you, Keel?” Mayson waggled his eyebrows at him. “All those sweet, soft young bodies, so eager to please-”

 

Keelstone flicked a card at him, underhand. It caught Mayson in the eye. Mayson retaliated with his entire hand.

 

“Heard talk of another free company sailing in,” Lilt observed. “Might be the Archon is finally going to pull his thumb out of his ass and get on with this war.”

 

Kip snorted. “Not bloody likely.”

 

“He'll try to renegotiate the contract first,” I said. “Our combat pay is downright _ruinous_.”

 

Lilt nodded. “Leave it to the Old Man, aye?”

 

Silkfingers said. “One battle. One bloody battle this year is all I ask. Swear to the gods.”

 

“Appears you're swearing to the wrong ones.” Kip observed.

 

Keelstone and Mayson's escalating scuffle overturned the table.

 

“Bugger this.” I growled, heading for the door. “I'm going to go find Kitten.”

 

XXX

 

We were standing outside our first stop, a filthy dockside tavern whose sign had long ago weathered into illegibility. There were eight of us: Kitten's squad plus Kip and myself. We were dressed for the occasion: hard leather and thick linen, all except for Kitten. She wore far less.

 

She went in first, alone. The noisy room went dead silent when she stepped through the door. We stood in the twilight outside and waited for a minute or two to give things a chance to get moving. When Kitten finally screamed we grinned and piled inside.

 

Three taverns later, a messenger from the Captain found us. We were slumped around a stack of crates on a wharf, comparing injuries and passing around bottles of wine from the last place we kicked over.

He jogged right up to me. “Annalist, Captain wants you.”

 

I gave him an inquisitive look from behind a bottle of surprisingly fine Dornish red.

 

“Its about the contract.”

 

I made a quick detour on the way to the Captain's chambers to strip off my boiled leather and wash away a little of the blood. Its wasn't mine. It used to belong to a big blue-bearded Tyroshi sailor until I hit him in the face with a stool.

 

The Captain and the Lieutenant were waiting for me when I got there.

 

I threw them a salute. “Sirs.”

 

“Sit down, Annalist,” the Captain said. I took the only other chair in the room. “Have a look at this.”

 

The Lieutenant handed over a neatly folded letter. I opened it, my eyebrows climbing as I scanned its contents. They were up to my hairline by the time I got to the seal and signature.

 

The Captain nodded when I glanced up at him. “We need your counsel. The Lieutenant and I believe that it is no longer in the Company's best interest to remain under contract to the Archon. However, we cannot simply abandon our contract without negatively affecting our future employment prospects in this region.”

 

The Lieutenant didn't mince words. “Find us a way out. Find a loophole in the contract or some precedent in the Annals we can use.”

 

I chewed my lip, thinking. “Are you sure about this? I think there's precedent in the Annals, but those were dire circumstances.”

 

The Captain began to pace. “These _are_ dire circumstances, Annalist. You know what this city is doing to the Company. We sit and wait while the Archon musters up his courage. Meanwhile the Company goes to seed. Its been too long since we've seen action and the men are restless,” He rounded on me. “I would have thought you would agree, considering you spent the evening breaking up wineshops.”

 

I winced. “Our current state aside, we can't just throw away a contract because a better one comes along.”

 

“You're wrong. We can and we will.”

 

It was two against one. I didn't want to go along with this, but deep down I had a suspicion that they were right. The Company was slowly falling apart. Still, to go against our word like that was a bitter cup to swallow.

 

I said. “Captain, I would like to formally request a council.”

 

The Captain nodded. He looked like he'd been expecting something like that. He motioned to the Lieutenant. “Go call them.”

 

XXX

 

It was close to midnight when the council convened. The Captain presided from his big carved chair at the head of the table. The Lieutenant sat at his right, I sat on his left. The others gathered round. Standardbearer Quith, First Sergeant Glimmer, and our two wizards: Flint and Chains. The Captain laid the letter and the proposal before them.

 

“Annalist Spatter called this council, as is his right as a brother of the Black Company,” the Captain said finally. “He has the floor.”

 

I rose to my feet. “I don't like this situation,” I insisted. “I don't. But we've signed the contract and taken the gold. We're bound to fulfill the agreement.”

 

“To hell with the contract,” Flint growled. He was a big, rawboned man who looked more like a drover than a wizard. “If the Archon wanted to use us he'd have done it already. He's afraid to send us out and afraid to keep us here. Bugger him.”

 

“If it comes to a vote, Spatter,” the Lieutenant said quietly. “I think you're outnumbered.”

 

“The point,” I said stiffly. “is that we took an oath.”

 

“To the Company, not to the bloody Archon!” Glimmer barked. Flint and Quith growled assent.

 

The Captain was unperturbed. “Have you looked in the Annals?”

 

I had. And I didn't like what I had found. “Book of Croaker. The Company was in the service of the Syndic of Beryl. They were released from that service to take on employment with the Lady of Charm following the death of the Syndic.”

  
Grins all around. The Archon wasn't a popular employer.

 

I tried to talk them out of it for a while until I realized that I was just trying to convince myself. What was worth more: our honor or our survival? Sure, we were intact, but a free company that spends too long in one place can go to pieces in the next battle. Who's to say it couldn't happen to us? Better to break our word, I decided, than rot away little by little. Nothing's more important than the survival of the Company. When the Captain finally called a vote it was unanimous. The Black Company was pulling out of Tyrosh.

 

I sat and stared at the letter in front of me while the others planned our departure.

 

“Where's the messenger that brought this?” I asked the Lieutenant.

 

“Ship.” she said. “Said we had two days to give him an answer, yes or no.” She snorted. “Arrogant little prick.”

 

I stared at the letter, my fingers tracing the rampant lion imprinted in the scarlet wax. “I guess he has a right to be, hiring us.”

 

“You said it yourself, this isn't the first time the Company's broken their contract.”

 

“True, but that ended with them facing down the greatest sorcerer of that age.”

 

“Aren't you hopeful,” the Lieutenant grinned. “Cheer up, I hear Westeros is lovely this time of year.”


	2. Duskendale

We made landfall at Dragonstone Isle, a dreary, rocky place covered in sea fog. The sailors said that it was the old seat of the dragon kings before they were wiped out in the last war. From where we were, the island looked as dead as the dragons. We didn't get close enough to see the castle, our ships passed well to the north and the captains were under orders to steer clear. War might not have been declared yet, but sailing a fleet of mercenaries past a lord's castle was begging to start one.

“Spatter.”

“Eh?” I looked up from my cards. Flint loomed over me.

“Ship approaching. Come on.”

“Have a heart, Flint, I'm winning this hand.”

Flint peered at my cards. “No, you're not.”

I sighed and flung down my cards. “Spoilsport.”

“Flint, you want to take his place?” Keelstone asked with a hopeful grin. Flint was a notoriously atrocious card player. It was hard to believe that someone could be with the Company as long as he had and still be that bad. If it wasn't for his black market partnership with Shambles, he would have been permanently broke.

“No.” Flint grunted, turning away. I followed him towards the bow.

“So what's up?” I asked.

“Your friend's getting agitated.” He pointed ahead to where the Lannister envoy was wearing a path in the planks.

“Hells, he's not my friend.” I protested. 

“Crap. You're the only one on this tub he allows within spitting distance.”

He was right, unfortunately. Wallace Lannister, our employer's proxy, was the bitter second son of a bitter second son, prone to vent his frustrations on anyone who happened by. On this voyage he had quickly chased off anyone inclined to be friendly with his endless tales of woe. The Captain had bluntly suggested that I pump him for information, which was the only reason I willingly sought his company. He seemed to tolerate me, although whether this was due to my winning personality or to the fact that I always had a skin of wine on hand I leave to the reader's imagination.

“Wallace!” I cheerily greeted him. “You're looking excited this morning. Expecting company?”

He scowled by way of welcome and jabbed a finger at the oncoming ship. “First good fortune I've had all voyage. News from the Seven Kingdoms and, gods willing, passage home.”

I joined him at the rail. Flint faded into the background. “You must have better eyes than I. Damned if I can see what flag she's flying.”

“She's one of ours.” Wallace insisted stubbornly, gripping the rail hard enough to whiten his knuckles. “I swear by the Seven, if Lord Tywin means to keep me here with this pack of sellswords...” he ground his teeth, biting off the end of that thought.

“Let's toast to that.” I suggested, producing a skin of the Captain's best wine and suppressing the urge to pitch him over the rail.

He sneered but took a pull from the skin.

“What sort of man is Lord Tywin?” I asked.

Wallace wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hells if I know. Never met his high-and-mightyness. Just an errand boy, that's all I am to him.”

“We all have our parts to play, I suppose.” I tried to be diplomatic.

He spat over the side. “That's for Lord Tywin and his plans! I could have been someone in this war, like that golden boy of his that can do no wrong! Sure, his shit smells like roses, he gets pardoned for killing a king, but I – I make one mistake and I'm packed off to the ends of the earth to whistle for sellswords!”

He broke off to take another drink. 

I tried again. “Think of the rewards though, hey? Your Lord Lannister wins and there's bound to be some rich prizes for the man who helped make it happen.”

A snort. “Not bloody likely. The Casterly Lannisters always look down on us Lannisporters, like they're too good for their own blood. Its all the world for them, gold and castles and titles while we have to scrape and scratch down with the bloody merchants and never get-”

I sighed and stared out across the water, silently willing the approaching ship to hurry up.

XXX

The wind was with us, which meant I had to endure another watch's worth of Wallace's whining while he worked his way though more of the wine. I finally took it away from him, reminding him that it wouldn't look good if he was vomited on our guests.

The ship proved to be a small coastal cog flying Lannister colors. It came alongside with a dark haired man waving a wrapped packet. The sailors threw a line down and he scrambled up with surprising agility.

“Greetings, sers.” he said once his feet were planted on our deck. “Ser Colin Farman bearing sealed orders to be delivered to the hand of the sellsword commander. As the orders are urgent, I demand to be taken to him directly.”

“Annalist Spatter.” I said. “and Wallace Lannister. I'll take you to the Captain at once.”

“What news from the Seven Kingdoms?” Wallace demanded.

“Its war.” Ser Colin said as we hurried towards the stern cabin. “Fighting has broken out in the Riverlands. The last news before I sailed was that Ser Jaime had smashed a Tully army at the Golden Tooth. He and his lord father are marching north and east to break the river lords before the wolves arrive from the north.”

“Ha!” Wallace clenched his fist in triumph. “A good beginning! I only fear that the war will be over too quickly for me to see battle.”

“That would be the least of my worries.” Ser Colin said. “The northern lords are calling upon all their strength. It is said that their levies number in the tens of thousands.”

“Those would be the 'wolves' you mentioned, yes?” I interjected.

“Cold-hearted traitors the lot of them.” Wallace growled. “They've ice for blood and as soon stab you in the back as look at you.”

“Indeed.” Ser Colin said calmly. “The former Hand of the King, Lord Eddard Stark, turned traitor and tried to seize the throne for himself. He was imprisoned by command of the king, but his son is calling his banners and his kin in the Riverlands have already risen in rebellion.”

“Sounds like a right mess.” I agreed, rapping on the cabin door. “Captain, the Lannister messenger is here.”

The Lieutenant opened the door. “Come in, ser. You made good time.”

Ser Colin did a double take. “As fast as wind and tide would allow, m-my lady.”

The Lieutenant winked at him and waved us in.

“You're evil.” I said.

She just smirked at me.

The Captain was in his big chair, looking every bit the sellsword commander.

“May I offer you some refreshment, ser?” he asked, accepting Ser Colin's packet.

“I thank you, but no.” Ser Colin said. “I am only here to deliver your orders and then I must be off again.” 

“What about me?” Wallace demanded.

“You will be returning with me.” Ser Colin said. “Lord Tywin has further duties for you.”

“At last, thank the gods!” Wallace spun on his heel and stalked out of the cabin. 

“He didn't like our company for some reason.” the Lieutenant said.

“You are not alone in that regard.” Ser Colin said in a long-suffering tone. “But I must take my leave. I wish you fair winds.” 

He turned and followed Wallace, leaving the three of us alone.

“What's the word, sir?” I asked, seating myself and pouring a cup of wine.

The Captain ignored me until he had read over the papers and passed them over to the Lieutenant.

“Make yourself useful and fetch that map.” he said, beckoning across the room.

I brought it over and spread it across the tabletop. “Am I supposed to guess, then?”

“Shut the fuck up, Spatter.” the Lieutenant said absently.

The Captain laid a finger on the map. “We land at Duskendale.” His finger slashed cross country. “West to the kingsroad, then north. We join up with the main Lannister force at a place called Harrenhal.”

“Or,” the Lieutenant added, looking up from the papers, “we're supposed to secure it if we get there first.”

“So that's enemy territory then.”

“My understanding was that the situation was in flux.” the Lieutenant said.

The Captain nodded. “No formal declaration of war has been made. We fly no banners and display no colors until we hear otherwise.”

“So what do we say to the lord of Duskendale when we come sailing in? 'Don't mind us, just a few thousand armed men marching west?'”

“Lord Lannister has his fingers in many pies.” the Captain said. “Duskendale will turn a blind eye to our movements.”

“And if the northern lords come south?” I tapped the lake labeled God's Eye and the river it fed. “We're trapped on the other side of the river with no support.” 

The Lieutenant rolled her eyes. “So we march around them. Honestly Spatter, stop worrying like an old woman.”

“Heh, that's rich coming from you.”

She glared. “Don't push it.”

I stole another glass of wine and fled.

XXX

“Spatter, wake up.”

“Urghlh.”

“No, really, we sighted port, you need to get up.”

“Fuck off.”

“Alright, be that way. I'll just send Reaper down to check on you.”

“Go to hell, Kip, I'm up.”

“Good to hear. Also, I was only half joking about Reaper, I really think he's around here somewhere.”

I levered myself upright. “Kip, Reaper's on another ship. There's no way he's just going to drop in on us.”

“Yeah, that's exactly what he want's you to think. See you topside, brother.” Kip fled.

I sighed and began getting my things together.

Armor went on, weapons went on, pack went on. Ready to face the world.

The deck was a mad bustle of activity. The sailors were scurrying around adjusting the sails and tying off ropes while the captain barked orders from the helm. The Captain and the Lieutenant were at the bow watching the approaching port while a few armored Company brothers stood around in the waist keeping out of the sailors' way and spitting sourleaf. I drifted their way.

“-full kit if we're just going to march through.” Keelstone was saying as I joined them. “Come on, ten silver. Spatter, ten silver says we're sacking the port when we land, how about it?”

“No thanks, I'll pass.”

“Come on, you get the inside word straight from the Captain and you still won't wager a little coin?”

“First of all, the inside word is that we're marching straight through. No looting, no sacking, no pillaging, no kicking over vegetable stalls, got it? Second, I would never stoop to using Annalist privileges for petty gain.”

That drew whistles of derision.

“Aye, and you've never told a pretty girl you'd protect her from all the bad men either.” Mayson grinned.

I held up my hands in protest. “Only under duress.”

Keelstone didn't want to let this go. “Alright so what if we march in there all nice and polite and then they attack us? We didn't start anything, we weren't looking for trouble, so no one could blame us for fighting back.”

“Yeah, you 'accidentally' fight your way into the treasury.” Silkfingers deadpanned.

I sighed. “Fine, have your little fantasy. But this is what we're going to do. We're going to land, unload, and march off. That's it. Nothing's going to happen.”

XXX

Duskendale was a port city, much like the one we had left back in Essos. The streets were narrower, the houses less ostentatious, but all in all much the same. Guards bearing the sigil of two crossed warhammers on their jacks stood around and watched us disembark, but they didn't interfere. We formed up by twos and double timed it through the narrow streets.

We halted just out of bowshot of the city walls and formed up in line by platoons. This gave us time to adjust a strap or rearrange a pack while the sergeants took the roll to make sure no one had fallen behind, voluntarily or otherwise, in the city. That done, we set off on the march.

Our road out of Duskendale ran west over gently rolling hills. Most of the land had been cleared and cultivated, although there were thick stands of trees here and there along the margins of the farmland. The road was also shaded by tall timber, for which every man of us gave thanks to the higher powers of our choice. Traffic was light and we made good time. Two thousand armed mercenaries coming down the pike always have the right of way.

XXX

“Smoke on the horizon!”

We were three days out from Harrenhal when we found our first signs that the war had beaten us here. A scout came galloping in reporting a sacked and half-burned village near our line of travel. I was desperate for something, anything to put in the Annals besides the grinding monotony of the march, so I found a horse and accompanied the brother back to his squad. They were camped out on top of a low rise that overlooked the village, their horses tethered to bushes in the ravine behind them. 

“Ho, Annalist.” The squad sergeant rose to greet me as I crested the rise to join them.

“Ho, Pigface.” I said. “Any signs of life down there?”

He shook his head. “Not a peep. Probably dead or rounded up.”

“Cap'n says we's t' search it all t' same.” Jack Snap said.

Pigface nodded. “I hear you. Weapons out, lads. Let's see if they left us anything.”

The village was a collection of about twenty or thirty wooden buildings clustered around a small stone holdfast. Someone had fired a few of the houses closest to us, but the recent rains had dampened the houses' thatch enough to stop the fire from spreading.

We split up into pairs and searched house by house. I was the odd man out, so I stuck with Pigface and Jack Snap as we eased up to an unburned house. The door had been kicked in, so we walked inside with swords drawn. One room, with a loft overhead and an open cellar hatch in one corner. The furniture was smashed up and strewn around. No bodies, although I found a few bloodstains near the door. Jack hopped down into the cellar while Pigface and I looked around the room. These people hadn't had much to begin with, and the raiders had taken just about everything not nailed down. I didn't expect to find anything, but I checked the stone fireplace for loose rocks. Sometimes you get lucky and find a few coins.

Pigface poked his head up into the loft. “Nothing up here. You find anything?”

“No.”

“Alright, on to the next one. Jack!”

Jack's head popped up. “Aye?”

“Anything down there?”

Jack climbed back up. “Just some loose grain. Rest cleaned out.”

Pigface nodded. “Come on then, lets see if the others found anything.”

As if in answer I heard a yelp and the snap of a crossbow. We bolted for the door. 

“In the holdfast! Watch the top!” I heard someone yell as we dashed up a muddy lane between a house and some kind of open shed. The last house we reached had a Company brother at each end, crossbows pointed at the holdfast across the muddy expanse of the village square.

“What is it? Who fired?” Pigface demanded as we skidded to a stop against the wall.

“Think it was Trickles, sir.” one of them said without turning around. “He an' Mitt were going to check the holdfast.”

Pigface stuck his head around the corner. “Where are they?”

“Think they ducked inside.”

“Hells.” Pigface carefully leaned his crossbow against the wall. “Alright. Spatter, Jack, you're with me. Cover us, boys.”

We sprinted across the rutted, churned square towards the square stone building. “Coming in!” Pigface bellowed as he practically dove through the doorway with Jack and I on his heels.

Our two comrades were inside. One was reloading his crossbow behind an overturned table while the other covered the stairs leading to the next floor.

“Up there.” one of them pointed to the upper floor. “Seen 'em stick his head over the battlement and loosed at 'em. Think I hit him.”

“Go find out, then.” Pigface grinned at him. “We'll be right behind you.”

We clattered up the stairs to the upper floor to find it in much the same state as the houses. Furniture was smashed and overturned, the wall hangings were torn down and trampled, and drifts of feathers from a shredded featherbed blanketed everything. We waded through the mess. No signs of life. 

“Roof ladder.” Jack pointed.

“Up it then.” Pigface hissed.

Trickles went up, crossbow first. I half expected him to pitch backwards with an arrow in him as soon as he stuck his head through the hatch, but he scrambled onto the roof untouched. We followed.

We found Trickles' target slumped against the south parapet. An old man lay there with Trickles' bolt in his throat and his blood soaking into his long white beard.

“That him?” Pigface asked.

Trickles squatted down to reclaim his bolt. “I guess so. Don't see anyone else up here, do you?”

I scanned the rooftop. The center was clear, but the sides were piled up with boards, beams, stacks of straw and other clutter. The others poked at some of the near piles.

Pigface scratched his chin. “Good clean shot, even if it was an old man.”

One of the others, Benny the Bard, kicked at a pile of cut logs and then had to jump back as the stack collapsed at his feet.

“Hey, old men can be dangerous.” Trickles protested, wiggling the bolt free. 

“Yeah, if you're an old woman maybe.”

Pigface sighed. “Alright, enough of that. Let's finish searching this place and get back to the Company.”

We searched the rest of the village and found nothing living beyond a few pigeons and a cat, and nothing of value except for a solitary silver stag that Jack found lying in the mud.

As we rode off I asked Pigface who he thought had attacked the village. He shrugged.

“Probably our side if we're as close to Harrenhal as the Captain thinks. Foragers most likely, seeing how they cleaned out the stores. Always a chance it was a rebel raiding party, but I doubt it. We'll have our scouts riding a little farther out from here on just in case.”

That was the first destroyed village I saw in Westeros. I doubted it would be the last.


	3. The Green Fork

Harrenhal was gigantic. It was like some architect's fever dream, or something built by giants and never intended for human use. It rose against the horizon like an ancient ruin, its five towers shattered and tilted. It wasn't until we got closer that we could see tiny banners flapping on the walls and men coming and going from the yawning gateway.

“Bet that's a bitch to storm.” Keelstone observed. We were stretched out in the grass beside the road, our feet in the ditch. The Lannisters had gotten here first, outriders spotted us coming up the road so the Lieutenant had ridden ahead to present our credentials. We took the opportunity to rest our feet.

“Bet its a bitch to defend too.” Kip countered. 

Mayson just stared at it. “Never seen a castle so big, not in all my life.”

“Sure,” Silkfingers drawled, “its big – but its not the _biggest_.” He yawned elaborately, shut his eyes.

The sun was warm, the grass was soft, and I was too comfortable to take the hint.

Mayson rose to the bait. “Crap. Says who?”

Silkfingers grinned lazily. “Just some talk I heard. About the _North_.”

“Yeah? And what did your tavern gossip say about the North?”

“Oh, not much. But they said there was a wall up there. Said it was three times as tall as this one.”

“Bullsh-”

“Not a ch-”

“And made of _ice_.”

Chorus of disbelief. Silkfingers' grin grew wider.

“That's complete horseshit! You can't build a wall out of fucking ice!” Kip sputtered.

“You can...with _magic_.” Silkfingers said.

“That's even more unbelievable!” 

“This man who told you this, he was drunk, yeah? Or caging for a drink?” Keelstone said. “Because he clearly made that up.”

Silkfingers shrugged. “Magic.”

“Yeah, that's not the answer to everything.” Kip said.

“There's no magic in this world.” I mumbled. “We haven't caught even a sniff of it.”

“Maybe not here...”

“Or anywhere, most like. Come on, Silk, you know what kind of raving megalomaniac it would take to build a wall that high? And then to build it out of something that doesn't exactly stack well? _If_ there was a wizard who could do that he'd have to be stark raving. It'd be an ego project, something to be a nice big middle finger to his rivals. Why build that way the hells up in the north? And what kind of enemy would justify a wall that high, birds?”

“There used to be dragons around here.” Mayson pointed out.

“Now those I buy. Good hard evidence for those right there.” I pointed at the towers of Harrenhal. “Place gets shit on by dragons and you damn well know it. But an ice wall? To fend off dragons that breathe fire? Yeah, that's going to work out real well.”

“I still don't believe it exists.” Kip said. “Someone was just spinning a tale.”

“Believe it or don't.” Silkfingers said. “I don't give a shit.”

“Once we set up camp here I'm asking around.” Keelstone said, nodding towards Harrenhal. “I want to know if that's true or not.”

“Its not.” Kip insisted. “Someone was having a laugh at y-”

“Ho, look!” Mayson exclaimed, sitting up and pointing. I looked. A lone rider was pounding up the road towards us at a full gallop.

I squinted. “Think that's the Lieutenant.”

Silkfingers closed his eyes and sighed resignedly. “Probably bad news then.”

We watched the rider gallop up to the head of the column and leap off their horse in a cloud of dust. Not twenty seconds later the trumpets sounded for the march. 

“That better just be because they're in a hurry to get us to our quarters.” Silkfingers said, levering himself upright.

We trudged back onto the road and formed up. Through the rising dust we saw the Company banner unfurl and swing north.

“ _Hells_.” Silkfingers muttered.

Then the trumpets blew for quick-march and a chorus of grumbling went up as we jogged away from Harrenhal.

After a few miles I spotted the Lieutenant riding back down the column. “Lieutenant!” I called as she approached. “Why are we heading north?”

“Lannister army left Harrenhal a week ago headed north for the ruby ford!” she shouted as she cantered past. “The northmen are pushing south down the kingsroad!”

“Lieutenant!” Keelstone called after her. “I've already done a day's march, can I be excused?” 

Lilt cuffed him on the back of the head. “Shut the fuck up and march.”

XXX

We marched fast and we marched long, usually not halting to make camp until the lower edge of the sun had touched the horizon. It was a dangerous gamble for the Captain to make: push the men too hard and arrive too exhausted and worn out to fight, or not march fast enough and perhaps be too late for the battle. We all grumbled about it, but we also kept marching. We were professionals, grumbling was our right. I knew these men just as I knew myself. We'd bitch and whine and moan, but in the end we'd get it done.

We knew we were going the right way because we were following in the footsteps of the Lannister army, following the trail of churned roads and empty camps. We weren't so stupid as to actually camp in the same spots of course, an army fouls its resting places worse than a man with the runs in a featherbed. Judging by the state of the road, the Lannisters had plenty of cavalry too. I was sure we'd all be properly grateful for that once we were done wading through their shit.

The Black Company doesn't generally go in for cavalry. We use horses for scouting, raiding, and skirmishing, we don't line up knee to knee and charge. Doubtless that was different in the past and doubtless that will be different again in the future. In the present we are who we are: heavy infantry. We're tough, line-smashing foot sloggers who can crack a shield wall or stop a cavalry charge dead in its tracks. Heavy armor, heavy shields, polearms. Longswords are a privilege, not a right. I rarely carry one myself. Short swords are better for tight infantry formations, maces or war hammers better at pulping a knight inside his armor. Its the same reason we carry crossbows instead of composite or longbows; they're a bitch to carry but they're dead easy to learn and they can put bolts through breastplates at a hundred paces. A scared recruit with two weeks training under his belt can drop a knight with twenty years under his. That's good enough for the Company. We leave the fancy bow work for the artists, men like Jahdai and Haqqo No-Eyes who can shoot down a sparrow in flight. Might as well ask me to work a spell as do something like that. We all have our talents. I write, others cook or hammer or stitch flesh or sew cloth, but we all fight. Every man fights. Only in battle are we all truly brothers. Only in battle does the Company truly live.

We caught up to the Lannister army at some no-name little town just north of the Trident. The army was camped in the fields around the town while their commanders claimed the town's only inn. We edged around the outskirts of the Lannister camp while the Captain rode in to report to our employers. He was back before we had finished unloading.

We appropriated a section of Lannister defenses, dug them out and strengthened them. The Lannister camp was a sprawling thing, organized around the great tents of the various lords. We kept our distance and posted a heavy guard. Lords tended to get pissy when forced to herd with sellswords.

Night fell. Our camp was dark and quiet compared to the fires and feasting in the Lannister camp. Brothers talented in the larcenous arts began to slip away, sensing a bounty of opportunities. Our sentries had orders to keep men out, not in. Any brother caught stealing would be punished. But only if they were caught. 

I enjoyed my first full meal since Harrenhal, courtesy of our employer's cookfires. Except for the sentries, most of our camp curled up and slept after the evening meal. I claimed a spot near a campfire near the rest of my squad. Keelstone picked at a battered lute nearby, drawing the wrath of drowsy soldiers.

The Lieutenant appeared out of the darkness just as I was drifting off. “Enjoy it while you can, Spatter.” she said, looking down at me. “We have orders to stand ready tomorrow. The northerners are less than a day's march away.”

“Always so comforting.” I mumbled from the warmth of my bedroll.

Her white teeth flashed in the firelight. “Its the first clash for both these armies. Going to be bloody as all hells. Sleep well, Annalist.” She disappeared back into the darkness.

I grumbled, turned over, and slept.

XXX

The trumpets sounded in the gray before dawn.

“Gods, not even a decent night's sleep!” Mayson spoke for all of us as he dragged himself from his blankets. I crawled from my own bedroll and poked at the ashes of the campfire, hunting coals. If I was lucky I'd fight with a hot meal in my belly. All around us men emerged from tents and blankets, coughing, cursing, shaking off sleep and last night's wine. I hunched my shoulders against the chill and stirred up the fire.

Word spread through the camp as scouts jogged in. The northerners had stolen a march on our employers: instead of a comfortable half day's march away, they were a bare mile and closing.

No matter what the stories say, no man can sleep in full armor and expect to wake rested and ready. Even with battle looming I only slept in linen and leather. I was buckling on my greaves and shouting at Kip to stop fucking around and do likewise when a heavy hand fell on my shoulder and a voice boomed in my ear. 

“Annalist! You seem in rare good humor for such a bloody dawn!”

It was Chains, the cheerful half of the Company's sorcerous talent.

“I'd say the same, Chains, but that's pretty much how you always are.” It was true. Chains was like every child's favorite uncle: jolly and rotund, with twinkling eyes and a booming voice. Except your uncle probably couldn't throw around enough sorcerous talent to cripple entire army battalions single-handedly. Or maybe he could, I'm not judging.

“You will be standing with me today, I think.” he rumbled, leaning in conspiratorially. “The Captain wishes my colleague and I to remain a secret for now, unless the battle goes badly.”

“Fair enough. If you do decide to cut lose, just give me a chance to duck, aye?”

“Ha! I'll do just that! But come, I must attend to the Captain before before we take the field.”

The Company marched out of camp and assembled in ranks on the open field in front of the camp. To our right, the Lannister army poured out of their encampments behind the banners of their lords. To our front, Standardbearer Quith rode out with our banner, followed by the Captain and the Lieutenant in their witch plate. Before the eyes of the Company they drew their swords and saluted the banner. Our wizards flexed their power and ancient sorceries woven into the armor awoke and turned them into terrifying figures out of ancient myth. Eye slits glowed like a red-hot furnace, plates blackened as eldritch sigils squirmed across the metal. Wisps of tar-black smoke oozed from joints and crevices. Their swords thrummed and moaned with unholy energies. Most of it was just for show, to keep the enemy nervous and focused on the big bad warlocks and what they were doing and not on the line of spearmen about to cave their faces in. Then again, only a fool sets himself up as a target and doesn't wrap a few protections around his armor. Over the centuries this pair had acquired quite a few. Swords slid away from them or rebounded on their wielders. Arrows fired dead on somehow got lost halfway. The protection wasn't foolproof – I had personally helped to dig the splintered remains of Widowmaker out of the bottom of a corpse-filled crater – but it was a damn sight better than what I was wearing.

The battle was a perfect example of why amateurs shouldn't be allowed near wars. We were placed in the center with most of the Lannister infantry. Their cavalry was on the right, a mixed force of cut-rate sellswords and what looked like fur-clad barbarians on the left. They were led by a pair of armored figures straight out of a mummer's farce: a giant and a dwarf. Lord Lannister himself commanded the reserve. Judging by the almost even ratio of men to banners behind him, it was composed of his high nobles.

The northerners came over the low hills to our front, long low lines of pikemen leading. Archers on both sides opened up as they found the range. We held formation and tramped forward. All to the good so far. And then some fool on the left flank sounded the charge. I stood next to Chains and watched our entire left wing break rank and surge forward. Somewhere behind me I could hear Widowmaker cursing while our sergeants shuffled us to the left to brace against the inevitable counterattack. The left wing hit the northerners' pikes at full tilt. A quarter of them probably died right then and there. After that it was a confused mass of men climbing over mounds of dead horses and dying soldiers to grapple with the pikemen while archers fired into the mix. Complete chaos. At least they kept the northerners' right occupied. The trumpets blew for a general advance so maybe Lord Lannister thought the same. We marched forward until we were close enough to count noses, then our bowmen unlimbered and started cranking out volleys. I hung back with Chains while our halberdiers waded in and started mulching northerners. We were only at it for maybe five or ten minutes before the trumpets sounded behind us and the Lannister reserve of heavy cavalry crunched into the northern lines. They broke then although they fell back slowly at first. Our front ranks sat back on their heels and panted while our reserves jogged off to harry the enemy. Lifetaker galloped off after them. She could be a bloodthirsty bitch when the mood took her. There would be a few dozen fewer northmen to escape into the hills.

After it was done I tracked down the Captain. He was watching our medics comb through the windrows of fallen men, sorting through the injured, the dead, and the dying. Those of our brothers who might be expected to live were carried back to our camp, while the bodies of the enemy and ally dead and dying were unceremoniously searched, stripped, and tossed onto a growing mound of corpses. He was still in full armor but he had taken the helmet off and the enchantments had died away, Widowmaker was gone and he was the Captain again.

“-following the Northerners until sunset. Our employer's scouts have proved themselves incompetent and I do not wish to make the same mistake twice.” The Company scout saluted the Captain and galloped off.

“Annalist.” the Captain said without turning around. He regarded a line of prisoners being herded back towards the camps. “Have your expectations been fulfilled?”

I shrugged. “I think this'll be a short war if that's the best they've got.”

“It never is.”

“Honestly,” I said. “I expected them to show more fight. I guess their little night march took more out of them than they thought.”

The Captain rumbled in subterranean agreement. “Our employer is no fool at least. He wields his army as a lance, not a bludgeon.”

“You mean he was quick to act when that hare-brained idiot on the left made an unsupported charge? Maybe, but that commander still ought to be flogged.”

“You don't know? The commander of the left wing was his son.”

“The giant?” 

“The dwarf.”

“Damn.”

We stood together in silence while we watched the activity on the battlefield. The orderly ranks of men were gone or dead. Scavengers picked over their corpses in ones and twos. I made a mental note to visit the market later and see what they had recovered. I had been hearing some intriguing things about “Valyrian steel” swords.

“Do you think we have reason to celebrate?” The Captain seemed to be talking to himself.

“It _is_ a victory.” I ventured. “Tactically, strategically, logistically...”

“One victory does not a war win.” the Captain grumbled. “They will be feasting and shouting in their tents tonight because they got their precious victory, all while their enemy slips away to lick their wounds.”

“The Lieutenant and our rangers might hit them again tonight.”

“Not even the full Company could shatter the northerners' army in open battle, and I have neither the authority nor the inclination to order a general pursuit. No, the Lieutenant and her men will come in this evening and we'll not march north except as part of our employer's army.”

“You don't think that'll happen though.” I guessed.

“This isn't the Free Cities, Annalist. Nobles savor their victories like lesser men savor fine wine.” He turned his horse towards camp. “Although I must confess I prefer the latter. Less chance of it turning sour in your belly.”

I grinned and trotted after him.

“By the way, Annalist,” he said over his shoulder. “I want you to assist Shambles with his tally. Bring me the report tonight.” 

“So soon?” I threw some whine into my voice. “But Captain, I have the Annals to attend to. Surely such a heavy workload is enough?”

“Somehow I'm sure you will find the time.”

I threw him a salute that turned into a raised middle finger as soon as his back was turned.

XXX

“Alright, what've you got?” I grumbled, slouching up to the quartermaster's tent. Shambles and Tremm had the day's catch spread out on the ground around them and were fussing over each piece as they counted and stacked them.

“Look a' this beauty!” Shambles grinned, holding up a massive black steel breastplate emblazoned with a white sunburst. “Damn near a full suit too, except the fuckin' leg's crushed.”

“So get the smiths to hammer it back out.” I said. “Who was it?” 

“Dunno. Stark something.”

“Karstark.” A sullen boy in a spotted tunic spoke up from where he squatted at the edge of the canvas.

I cocked an eyebrow. “Who's the brat?”

“Squire on loan from the Presters.” Shambles said, setting the breastplate back on top of its backplate with a _clank_. “Fuck knows none o' us can keep all these fuckin' badges straight.”

I sighed, pulled out paper and quill. “I'm afraid that's just what I'll have to do. Captain wants me to catalog all these. Start at the top here.” I pointed to the near side of the canvas where the surcoats were stacked. “I want the badges and houses too, boy.” 

The squire glowered at me but obeyed.

It was a good haul for a short battle. Most of the armor came from the northerners. It was good quality – mostly chainmail and boiled leather with some plate here and there. The northerners didn't go in for ornamentation, thank the gods. Our smiths would pitch a fit if they had to scrape gilt and enamel off of every piece they got. The salvageable pieces would be stripped, cleaned, painted black, and doled out to brothers with lost or damaged armor. The silks and satins and gilt would be sold off to camp followers, and the badges and heraldry would be discreetly stored away. In this business you never knew when it might be handy to impersonate the enemy. Or join them.

After I had finished cataloging the sigils I joined Shambles and Tremm in picking over the armor for 'non-essential accessories', or 'fripperies that would be paying for our drinks'. Call it executive privilege. I swapped Tremm a silver inlaid belt and a horsehair crest mount for a bearskin cloak longer than he was tall. I was betting that some southerner would pay good coin for it. If not, I'd wear it north.

“No wolves.” Tremm sighed, polishing a bent cloak pin shaped like crossed battleaxes on his sleeve. “I was gonna get me a wolf banner.”

“Well, I want a Valyrian sword so it looks like neither of us is sleeping happy tonight.” I said.

“Banners are the best.” Tremm went on. “Light and easy to carry, but knights'll pay good coin to hang 'em in their hall.”

“Me, I'll fuckin' settle for Robb Stark's head.” Shambles grinned. “Wonder how much our employer would pay for that. Spatter, go find out how much the fuckin' head's worth.” 

“Go fuck yourself, Shambles. I'm not going anywhere near lord-high-and-mighty. Probably as soon hang me as look at me.” 

“Not if you had Stark's head.”

“Point. For that they'd probably knight me. Titles and trumpets and golden spurs and all that shit.”

As if summoned, a horn sounded from the Lannister camp. 

“What's this now?” Tremm wondered.

I sighed and sat back against a pile of mail shirts. “Bad news. Always is.”


	4. Fairmarket

It is somewhat inaccurate to think of an army as a collection of men. A council is a collection of men. A guild is a collection of men. But a council can adjourn for dinner and a guild can vote on a course of action. An army is a work horse. It has no choice – it works or it gets whipped. Whip it hard enough and you can get that horse to go until it drops. But then all you've got is a whip and a dead horse. Tywin Lannister damn near broke his army trying to reach an enemy that was out of reach from the start. Heart of gold or not, that's a shit bargain to make. 

The generals and nobles ride at the front of their armies so they don't have to see the sick and starving and wounded that fall behind. The men with dirty bandages and too-bright eyes who collapse into the ditches and can't get up again. The men who go to sleep and never wake up. But mostly the men who peel off their armor, throw away their weapons, and simply fade away into the woods and fields. You find who your brothers are on a hard march like this. Its not the men who fight shoulder to shoulder with you, its the ones who carry your stretcher over leagues of bad road, the ones who give you the last swallows of water in their skin and the last scraps of bread in their bag. Your brothers will cheat you at cards, charm away your woman, and steal your wine, but they'll never leave you for dead.

We were back at the ruby ford. Lord Lannister and his nobles had been shut up in the inn all day while their army licked its wounds. The Company curled up in its camp and slept like an old dog in the sun. Apart from the sentries it could have been a camp of corpses. I lasted until near evening. Call it curiosity – the curse that afflicts every Annalist. I dragged myself out to see what was stirring in the Lannister camp. Anyone important was in or around the inn. No chance there, the guards turned me away like a beggar from the door. I wandered down to the river. There was a thin trickle of traffic across the ford, mostly little parties of riders and scouts. Occasionally a wagon would lumber down the bank and across, the water sloshing at its floorboards. I noticed a man standing by himself near the middle of the ford. At first I though he was a soldier hoping to add a little fish to his dinner, but he had no line or rod. I watched him but he never moved from his position, staring out across the ford and the river as the water flowed around his waist as smoothly as though he were a stone. Clearly a man lost in his own company. So I sloshed out there and joined him. 

“Be glad to put this river behind us, I'll tell you that much.” I said as I waded up to where he stood. 

He gave no sign that he had heard me.

“I've got no preference as to which side I'm on, mind you. I just wish Lord Lannister would pick a side and stick with it, aye?”

He remained motionless and mute.

“Look, if you don't want the company just say so and I'll be on my way.”

Still nothing.

“So. The ruby ford then. Here we are.”

Silence.

Fuck it. I was hungry and my boots were full of water. So much for curiosity. I turned around and started to slosh back to camp.

“My father died here.”

There was no sound around us but the rushing of the river.

The man spoke again. “My father was loyal to the true king, the dragon king. He died in this river, fighting for his son.

“Prince Rhaegar.” I said.

“They call it the ruby ford now, in his honor. They remember him even if they bowed to the usurper. Nobody remembers my father. Nobody will remember us when we fall.” He whirled around suddenly to face me, almost slipping on the stones. “I won't die in this bloody river!” he said fiercely. “I won't!”

I regarded him. He didn't seem frantic, only gripped by the fatalist dread that visits raw recruits after a battle. “So don't. But if you run they'll hang you.”

He looked past me at the water. “I won't run.”

“Come on,” I said. “Let's talk, tell me about this place.”

“Don't know it.” he said, a little sullenly. “I'm from the Red Fork.”

“So lets climb out of this bloody river and you can tell me about the Red Fork.”

“My family was always river folk.” he said when we were settled on the shore. “Ten generations right here in the Riverlands. Served the Rygers, or paid their taxes more like. No one takes notice of small folk, aye?”

“Not till there's dying to be done.” 

“Aye. When king Robert-” he paused and spat, “-rebelled against the dragons, the Rygers stayed true. Not many from the Riverlands did. My father was no knight, but he obeyed all the same. When the Rygers called their levies my father went. I was three and ten then. My mother locked me in the cellar or I'd have followed him.”

“What happened?”

“Bloody Robert Baratheon happened. My uncle came home with my father's cloak and two gold dragons and that was that.”

“Your uncle fought here too?”

“No. He was recovering from a wound so they left him in the camp with the other sick and wounded, but he went out to watch the battle anyway. Uncle always swore he saw the prince fall. So he gathered his belongings and went home.”

“And that was that?”

He shrugged. “The prince was dead. Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, last of the true dragons.” 

“Your family stayed loyal.”

He snorted. “Much good it did us. I lost my father and my uncle lost three fingers. We left the Riverlands after that, went to live with my uncle's cousin near Sarsfield. Now here I am at the ford.”

“Look for any rubies? I hear its the thing to do.”

He shook his head. “Rubies were all gone long ago, just like the dragons.”

We sat in silence for a few moments. 

“Prince Rhaegar never rode a dragon, did he?” I asked.

The man shook his head. “Dragons were before his time. All died out hundreds of years ago. The dragon kings still ruled after, but it wasn't the same, aye?”

“I'd think not.” 

“A septon who'd visited King's Landing passed through our village once. He said the dragons' lair still stood in the city. Like a huge ruined pit.”

“They housed their dragons in the city? Damn, that'd keep your people on their toes.” 

“I wonder what they were like, sometimes. How easy it must have been to rule from the back of a dragon!” 

“I'd say neither one of us is likely to find out, sadly. I for one would take flying over marching any day.”

“I'd settle for riding.”

“Plenty of horses lost their riders recently. I'd say that trend is likely to continue. Your lord one of them?”

“Never met him.”

“For all that armor, nobles die like flies in war.”

“Is that why you're here? To claim an empty holdfast somewhere?”

I laughed. “Hells, I wouldn't know what to do with one if I got it. I just follow the banner.”

He looked at me strangely. “So its not about land and titles. Gold then?”

“Gold's always good,” I admitted. “but it comes and goes. I don't think any one of my brothers has more than a few silver stags saved away. Better to spend it while you still live.”

“But why spend it?” he persisted. “Why not save it and leave?

“Some do,” I admitted. “But fewer than you think. Its not about the gold, see, its about being part of a brotherhood. You belong to the Company, you belong to something that existed before you were born and will go on existing after you've died and gone to dust. You can have a place in history. Your name will be remembered. Or just have some people who give a damn if you live or die. Some folk can't find that anywhere else.”

He stared out across the river. “So I've learned.”

We sat in silence, watching the river flow past.

“So, you're employed as long as the war lasts?” he asked.

“Or until Lord Lannister runs out of gold.” I said. 

“Going to be a long war before that happens.” he replied.

Footsteps behind us. “Might be shorter than you think.” Keelstone's voice said.

I turned. He was trying not to look pleased and failing. “Haven't heard then, Annalist? Thought that was your job.”

“Well you volunteer for it then. What happened?” 

“Wait, I want to savor this moment. This is going in the Annals, right?”

Sometimes this job is more trouble than its worth.

Whispering Wood. Robb Stark turned the war around in one fell stroke. While we were off bloodying the noses of some of his lords, he had captured our employer's son, broken his army, and lifted the siege of Riverrun. So while our employer marched his army back to Harrenhall, the Black Company was headed west again, into the lands of the river lords. That's the trouble with being a mercenary, everyone always wants to get their money's worth out of you. 

XXX

The western Riverlands were in chaos. Ned Stark, former Hand of the King, had been executed as a traitor by King Joffrey Baratheon. His son Robb Stark, recently declared king by his bannermen, was resting on his laurels at Riverrun, but his lords were busy retaking their castles and lands around it. Our employer was holed up in Harrenhall, waiting to see which way the winds blew. In the west, the Greyjoys were calling their ships, and in the south, the two Baratheon brothers were gathering their banners. Good times all around. Sadly, the Black Company wasn't headed west or south. That would have been too easy. Instead, we were headed north to pay the 'King in the North' back in his own coin. Before we could do that, we had to get across the Red Fork of the Trident, preferably undetected. And so you see how this series of events has led to me lying in the grass next to my squad, watching the river road and waiting for the sun to set. Also the grass was wet.

We had seen no travelers on the road all day. Our scouts were almost certain the wolves didn't patrol this far east, but the Captain didn’t want almost. So two squads were watching the road here while Flint lounged in the bushes waiting to work his sorcery. His less grim counterpart Chains was several miles down the road with another two squads. Why they had to wait for night I don't know, but that's their business, not mine. Night fell with no break to the monotony of watching an empty road. It was a relief to finally rouse Flint and watch him get to work. He ordered us to keep off the road, something about 'tainting the soil', so we watched from the bank while Flint dug around in the dirt and muck of the road. He finally produced a pebble, washed it clean with something from a flask, and carefully replaced it in the dirt. Then he scuffed a line across the road with his boot and walked back to us.

“Done.” Flint is a man of few words.

“All this for that?” Keelstone complained.

“You want results or a mummers' farce?” Flint growled. “No men bearing iron or wearing iron have passed through here in a fortnight. Company's clear to move through.”

“I'll let the Captain know.” Kip volunteered. Flint was already striding away down the road. 

I looked back at the others. Mayson shrugged. “So can we walk on the road now?”

“We'll find out.” I set off after Flint. 

I found him holding a whispered conversation with Chains which ended with Flint scooping up a handful of road dirt, depositing it in Chain's hand, and stalking off. Chains stared at the pile of dirt. A single worm emerged from the surface and flailed about. Chains nodded thoughtfully at the worm, dumped the soil back in the road, and walked off after his colleague. 

Fucking wizards. 

XXX

The Company slipped across the river and headed north, screened from detection by roving scouts and nets of spells. Five days after we crossed the Red Fork our outriders were surveying the walls of Fairmarket, our target. We were here to show King Robb that two could play at disrupting supply lines. Any supplies and reinforcements from the north had to cross the Trident somewhere, and Fairmarket was a key crossing. The Company coiled itself around the town and waited.

In the dark before dawn we prepared. The moon had set and clouds covered the stars. I could hardly see my hand in front of my face. My brothers were slightly darker shades of gray and black to either side of me. Cooking fires were out of the question. I worried at a strip of dried meat and sipped watery ale. A broad shadow loomed up in front of me. Chains' meaty paws grasped the sides of my head as he muttered under his breath, something slimy and sibilant. Something greasy that smelled like wildflowers was smeared on my forehead and he moved on to the next brother in line. Nothing happened for a few moments. Then my eyes started to itch, then burn, as though someone had splashed dragon pepper juice in them. I gritted my teeth. Finally the burning subsided. Blinking away tears, I found I could see the forest and fields clearly, although everything was strangely tinted yellow. 

Sergeant Lilt jogged up. “Squad, on me. If you can't see, say so now.” 

No one spoke up.

“Good. Alright, plan's simple, so even you whoresons don't have an excuse to fuck this up. We move in quick and quiet, straight to the city wall. The wizards will take care of any sentries, we go up and over, open the gate, and then straight on to the bridge. Got it?”

Chorus of affirmatives.

“Good. And I want no noise. I hear jingling, I will nail that kit to your body. We clear?”

“Quiet as mice, sir.” Kip loved this knives in the dark shit. He and Silkfingers were carrying blades long enough to be mistaken for short swords. Me, I didn't trust a dagger longer than my forearm.

“We'll see.” Lilt said. “Follow me, brothers.”

We crept out of the woods and into the farmland. We avoided the crops—no sense fighting your way through a wheat field in the dark—and kept to the paths. Not a soul stirred in the farmhouses as we passed through. Twice or thrice a dog barked as we passed. We slunk away and gave those houses a wide berth. Somewhere off to our left a hoarse shout was suddenly cut off. Lilt hissed and we quickened our pace. 

We were at the gate. The wooden palisade looked new, bark was peeling off some of the logs. One of the sentries was splayed in the dirt by the gate, his neck twisted under him. Must have been leaning out over the wall when our wizards struck. Kip knifed him to make sure. Mayson and Keelstone planted themselves at the foot of the wall. The rest of us swarmed up and over them and onto the top of the wall. One guard slumped against the battlement, snoring. Kip cut his throat too. Then we were down on the inside. A charcoal brazier smoked by the gate, two more guards lay beside it. Silkfingers and Lilt dealt with them while the rest of us went for the gate. We levered the heavy crossbeam out and slid it aside. The gate rumbled open. “Bridge!” Lilt hissed and we were off.

Fairmarket was dark and still before us. We sprinted through the streets. Far behind us I thought I heard the faint thunder of hooves.

There were no guards on the bridge. We pulled up and panted for breath. Silkfingers and Kip investigated the far side, blades making passes at shadows. I looked back the way we came and watched Fairmarket awaken to its fate. Company cavalry thundered past, infantry riding double. Squads were kicking in doors down the streets. Sappers fired a building and speared screaming men who fled the flames. Too late, a horn sounded across the river. Lilt whistled and we circled up.

“Job’s done, brothers. Let’s turn this town upside down.”

Kip and Mayson whooped as we started off down the street.

Shouts broke out behind us. I turned to see the biggest northman I’d ever seen on top of the biggest horse I’d ever seen emerge from the darkness at full gallop. Of fucking course he’s headed right for me. We scattered off the road out of his path. No good, he’s swinging at any shadow that moves and I’ve got a solid wall at my back. Mayson was in the same boat, he scrambled forward to swing for the horse’s legs. Kip whipped a knife at the northman and missed, Silkfingers threw and hit the horse. It screamed and stumbled mid-stride. The man went over its neck as it folded. He came up bellowing and aimed a slash at Mayson that came damned close to cutting him in half. I ventured a stab but the point of my knife grated on a mail shirt. What did the fucker do, sleep in it? Gods bless Kip’s short sword. It took the northman’s sword hand off at the wrist. That set him back enough for Silkfingers to grab a fistful of hair and jam his knife into his throat. 

“Fuck me.” I panted. 

“Mayson, you in one piece?” Lilt demanded.

Mayson was patting himself over like a man not quite sure how many limbs he still had. “Still here, sergeant.”

“Alright. Fuck me but that was a big lad.”

The rest of the night held no more surprises. We sacked, burned, killed, looted, and left Freemarket and its bridge in ruins. By the time the sun had risen the Company was headed south again.


End file.
